Confessions of a [wannabe] wanderer

I distinctly remember the first time I flew. It was the day before my 16th birthday. My friends and I left school on the same bus, sneaking on without the driver noticing that not all of us were paid passengers. The Greek church was hosting their annual festival. To the untrained eye the scene was rather lame: A long line was brewing under a shoddy white tent for gyros and souvlaki, drowned in tzatziki sauce. Toddlers were running around a blow-up play set from the '80s and elderly grandmas were inside tabling a flea market full of Orthodox paintings and jewelry adorned with evil eyes. But to us, it was magical. We meandered to the back with our bellies full of sliced lamb and filo dough, and carefully planned the order of the carnival rides we simply had to board while carelessly ignoring the fullness of our stomachs. We embarked inside a questionable enclosed spaceship-like contraption, the doors locked and it was the four of us, alone, our backs against the dingy walls, no seat belts to hold us down. Gradually we began to spin, around and around and then up and down. The music was blasting and, by some stroke of inappropriate-pop-music fate, “Birthday Sex” (2009) blared. As my friends and I shrieked at the irony of such a festive tune the day before my birthday, we started to spin so rapidly that everything was a blur and the only things grounding me in even a remote sense of reality were Jeremih’s voice and the sheer delight of our laughter. I felt weightless, in every sense, and I know I will never forget those three minutes of bliss even in situations when I am most skeptical. s.

You see, my real confession is that I’m a fraud. My weekly articles were contrived, poorly written accounts of “experiences” deemed appropriate by the standards of Boston.com and TripAdvisor, many of which had no deep personal effect on me. I gave you all philosophical advice on venturing out into the city, more because I boxed myself into that position rather than because I actively believed it. A real wanderer is boundless not out of obligation, but because of an openness toward any situation, in any location. I look back at my shallow depictions of museum experiences and salsa clubs, not because these places weren’t fantastic fun, but because I recounted them in a forced manner that totally distorted their wonder into merely being proof that an experience was had. Throughout this semester, I may have disappointed myself, but it is only through disappointment that important lessons are learned, even if it’s 12 weeks too late. To be a wanderer is not determined by how many places you go or even where you venture, but by an attitude that sees any moment as an opportunity to have an experience – not with high expectations, but with a welcoming nonchalance. The truth is there is no right way to shape your college (or life) experience, and the possibilities are endless no matter where you choose to go, even if that’s nowhere at all. My best advice, for myself, is to be more concerned about whether my spirit is adventurous enough, not if my weekend agenda is. From there, I think everything else will fall into place. It’s important not to worry, to take things as they come, be open to new experiences, but also to never forget that every second, regardless of place, is an experience waiting to be formed. I hope I can take my own advice this time; it’s been a while since I flew.